


Artillery

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Dubious Consent, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Prostitute Stiles Stilinski, Prostitution, Soldier Mitch Rapp, Vintage Porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: When half the men in Stiles’ modest town are taken by German soldiers to be added to the ranks of the Civil Worker’s Battalions, his father is among them. He has no choice but to follow after them, until he is left stranded in Berlin. With no money and nowhere left to go, Stiles accepts a strangers offer.





	1. Berlin

**Author's Note:**

> All chapters will begin with relevant content warnings in the beginning Author's Note, and a more detailed warning in the end note. If I miss anything, don't hesitate to leave a comment! I am always open to tag/warning suggestions. 
> 
> Content Warnings:  
Language Barrier  
Implied/Referenced Anti-Semitism

The streets of Berlin were cold and wet. Stiles shuddered from the ache of it gnawing at his bones. He drew his thin coat tighter around himself, but it did little to ward off the cold. With no money for an inn he had to content himself with filthy alleys, trying desperately to keep warm amongst the trash. All around him people spoke in that harsh language he couldn’t understand. All he knew of it was that the men who stole his father away shouted it. 

It was the language of demons and the cruel men who do their bidding.

***

Stiles peered out of the window as large trucks came rolling into town in a neat line. The roar of the engine was too harsh for the gentle quiet of the town. 

“Get away from the window, Stiles,” his father ordered, pulling him back by his shoulders. 

“Dad?” Stiles looked at him, saw the concern lining his face. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, son.” John tried to smile but Stiles saw through him. Fear gripped his tender heart when he looked out to see German soldiers piling out of the trucks, calling for everyone to come outside. Rifles hung from shoulder straps. Stiles didn’t think they were for show. “Go to your room, alright? I want you to stay there. Whatever happens. And you don’t let anyone see you, okay?” 

“Dad—dad no, where are you going?” Stiles clutched his father’s arm. “What are they doing here?” 

“I don’t know, Stiles.” John cupped Stiles’ face, pulling him close to kiss his forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too, dad…”

“Now go. Off to your room, now.” 

Stiles did as he was told, watching from the window as his father went outside to meet the soldiers with the rest of the town. The occupation wasn’t new; Poland was invaded over a year ago, now. Occasionally soldiers would come into town, looking for volunteers willing to work. Stiles didn’t think that’s what they were after this time. 

One man addressed the town. Stiles couldn’t make out his words, but he didn’t need to hear to understand. Children clutched their father’s, only to be torn away by mothers and soldiers. All at once chaos broke out in the small town square, a cacophony of yelling and shouting. All of the able-bodied men were taken away and loaded onto the trucks. Stiles ran out of the house shouting for his father. 

“Stiles! Get back inside!” John yelled

“Dad!” 

Stiles couldn’t break past the crowd. A line of soldiers held them back, brandishing guns that Stiles wasn’t afraid to challenge if it meant getting to his father. In an attempt to regain control of the crowd one soldier set off a rush of gunfire into the sky, sending the townspeople cowering to the ground. The soldier from before called for them to peacefully return to their lives while a fearful citizen translated.

“Dad! Please, let me go instead,” Stiles begged, grabbing onto the green sleeve of the nearest uniformed man. But the man didn’t understand him anymore than Stiles understood them. Or maybe he did, laughing as he shoved Stiles aside, rounding his father up along with other men from the village. When Stiles tried again to break past he was bashed over the head with the butt of a rifle, and his vision swam. Stiles could do nothing as his father was taken away. His eyes stung with frustration at his impotence. 

Once the soldiers were gone a woman knelt down beside Stiles helping him to stand once he was steady enough on his feet. She spit on the ground after the retreating German’s. Stiles didn’t get a chance to see his father again before the trucks drove off, splattering mud and rain in their wake. 

“Where are they taking my dad?” He asked the woman, sounding meek and small. The same way he sounded when his mother died. 

“A work camp,” the woman said bitterly. Stiles recognized her. She was the kind old lady that owned one of the two bakeries in town with her husband. Stiles searched but couldn’t find the man in the leftover crowd. His heart ached for her. “Come child, get inside before you catch a cold. I’ll find you something warm to eat.”

The kind old baker brought him to her home. It was empty, her husband and son having been taken away with the rest. She sat him at the table and left him to weep for his father while she made them tea.

“Enough of that,” she said once the water was hot, pouring it into mugs to steep. “You must be brave now, child. For your father.”

“I don’t know how,” Stiles whispered. 

***

No one in Berlin would hire a foreign Jewish boy that couldn’t speak German. Stiles was cast out of every place he begged for work. His stomach hurt from hunger, but he had no money to fill it. He used all he had getting to Berlin, trying in vain to follow in his father’s tracks. It was all pointless. Stiles didn’t know what he would do even if he did catch up to the German’s, never planned that far because deep down, he never truly believed he would make it. Ever since leaving Lodz he’s been on a wild goose chase. 

But even now Stiles couldn’t bring himself to wish he’d stayed home, in his village with the kind old woman. At least now he could say he tried. That he didn’t lie down and let the German’s destroy what little life he had after his mother’s death. What did it matter that he would die in these filthy alleys?

One evening while searching for a place to stay, having been run off from his alley behind a bakery while scrounging for scraps, a man approached him. Stiles thought to run but what was the point? The man called out to him and Stiles didn’t understand, so he said nothing. He didn’t like the way the man looked at him. The way his eyes ran over his body made his skin crawl, made him want to hide himself away, but there was nothing for him to hide behind. Nowhere for him to go. Like a rat in a cage. 

When Stiles said nothing to what sounded like an offer, the man sighed and rubbed his fingers together. “Marks,” he said slowly, in a messy accent that Stiles’ didn’t recognize. It certainly wasn’t German, though. “For you. Yes?” Stiles was wary.

“What for?”

“Come.”

Stiles almost didn’t. But what more did he have to lose? He had nothing but the clothes on his back, nothing of value that could be taken from him. So Stiles went with the man. Followed him down cobblestone streets and filthy alleys, through back rooms and into a building that was lit by a gas lamp casting crimson light. A whorehouse. Did the man want Stiles to whore himself? As if sensing Stiles’ growing apprehension, the man turned to him and gave him a smile that turned his stomach. 

“Come, come.” He held the door open. Stiles couldn’t see anything within, but what he heard was more than enough to give him pause, and bring a blush to his pale cheeks. “Many marks,” the stranger promised. Against his better judgement, Stiles steeled himself and entered the brothel. 

The stranger led him down a dimly lit hall lined with doors. Stiles was grateful they were closed, not wanting to see what actions matched the pleasured screams. 

The door they finally turned into was at the very back of the hall. The stranger bid Stiles to enter first, and he was met with several cameras resting on a table.

“What…?”

Stiles turned around and saw the man counting out marks. And he kept counting, glancing briefly at Stiles, who wondered if his desperation was so obvious. When the man counted out what looked like half the stack of marks, he put one half away and held the other up for Stiles. Tentatively he reached for it, but the man pulled his hand back.

“Ah, ah,” he chastised with a smile that made Stiles’ stomach turn. He gestured to the bed, then the cameras, and then held up the marks again. Stiles surmised that the man wanted to film him in bed. Maybe he should be ashamed of that, of what his father might think of him for being willing to go along with this, debasing himself for a handful of marks. But Stiles was hungry and alone with no way to get back to his father and nothing left to lose. Dignity had left him weeks ago.

Slowly, Stiles nodded and went to sit on the edge of the bed to await further instruction, fiddling anxiously with the hem of his threadbare shirt.

The man smiled brightly, cheering in his language that Stiles couldn’t understand. The man left the room for several minutes, and came back with three more in tow. One of them—big and burly with no hair and black tattoos roping up his forearms—watched Stiles and licked his lips lecherously. Stiles wrapped his arms around himself and flinched away. Already he regretted his decision. 

_ Relax,  _ Stiles told himself.  _ Don’t get shy now, you’re already committed. And they’ll be seeing much more of you soon enough.  _

Stiles looked at the man that found him—Jean, the others called him Jean—and tried to swallow down his fear. He sat up straighter and forced his hands to his sides. “Two, yes?”

“Hm?” Stiles pat the space beside him. Shouldn’t there be another person with him? “Ahh. No, no, just you. Lovely boy.” Jean came forward to caress his cheek and thumb his bottom lip. Stiles closed his eyes and ignored the impulse to jerk away from his lascivious touch. The salty taste of Jean’s skin when he pushed the digit past Stiles’ lips to pet his tongue almost made Stiles gag. 

The door opened again to admit a scantily clad woman. Jean pulled away to welcome her with a kiss on the cheek and Stiles discreetly wiped his tongue off on his filthy sleeve. He blushed fiercely when he got an eyeful of the whore’s breasts, quickly averting his eyes to stare instead at his hands. He’d never seen a naked woman before. She laughed when she saw him, cooing something. Somehow, she managed to make her harsh language sound kind. 

Whatever it was she said after in rapid German drew Jean out of the room, leaving Stiles under the watchful eye of the three camera men. Two of them tended to their duties, getting the equipment set up and arranging lights. But the third man, the large tattooed one, still stared at Stiles. The weight of his black eyes made Stiles’ skin crawl. What was he  _ thinking,  _ coming to this place? He would be lucky if he didn’t end up murdered like one of Jack the Ripper’s victims, his body dumped in an alley with the rest of the trash. It was where he belonged. 

_ It will get me to my father _ , Stiles thought. The only thought that kept him going anymore, even if it was a naïve hope. He would do anything to bring his father home. Even if it meant debasing himself for the pleasure of these strangers, and God knows how many strangers that he would hopefully never meet. 

Stiles breathed deep—trying to ignore the stench of stale sex that permeated the room—and scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. Now was not the time for crying like a child. The sooner they got on with it, the sooner it would be over, and the sooner he could leave.

When Jean returned, he had yet another man in tow. Something about this one was different. He was younger by far, and carried himself with a calm, intimidating kind of confidence. Like he knew he could kill everyone in the room if he wanted to. Stiles hoped he didn’t.

The stranger didn’t look like he worked in the brothel, but he also didn’t look to be bashful about his surroundings either. More, he didn’t notice the depravity, the shock and novelty of Berlin’s infamous red-light district having worn off. If anything he looked bored, like it was a routine.

A regular patron, perhaps.

They talked and Stiles listened, only half paying attention. He recognized that they were speaking English but couldn’t understand most of it. Paying attention to his father’s half-hearted lessons was never his strong suit. Why would he ever need to speak English when everyone he knew already understood Polish? 

One of the few things Stiles recognized from his old lessons was the younger man asking for his name in a decidedly American accent.  _ He must be a soldier. He could help me find my dad.  _

Now more than ever, Stiles wished he paid attention to his father’s language lessons. The brief spark of hope he felt was crushed when he realized: he didn’t know how to ask for help. 


	2. Film

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An American soldier meets a boy in a brothel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: 
> 
> Dub-con/Underage sex

The brothel was difficult to find if you didn’t know your way through the twisting streets and alleys of Berlin’s redlight district. It was well hidden by necessity, it’s owner not wanting just anyone stumbling across its doors. Anyone wearing the wrong colors or patches on their uniforms.

Mitch came dressed in civvies, but his accent was enough to grant him entry. He was a familiar sight here anyhow, all of the whores knowing his face if not his name. He typically came around once every month or so. Whenever he could find the time to get away for a few days.

A familiar red-head greeted him at the door and laughed when he wouldn’t look anywhere but her eyes. “Have you finally come to bed me?” she asked. 

“Not this time,” he replied in fluent German, smiling politely.

“More’s the pity. One day I shall have you, mark my words.” The woman walked past him, slapping his ass on her way to find the owner and making him jump in surprise.

Several women approached him while he waited, none of which he recognized. They were new, then. The regular workers knew he never bedded any of the prostitutes. He preferred to hoe the other row, as one woman elegantly put it. One of several reasons he came all the way here, instead of visiting the sanctioned brothels outside the American military base. 

The auburn-haired woman returned with a short squat man in tow, and he lit up upon seeing Mitch. 

“Mitch, my boy!” Greeted the owner. “How good to see you again. I did not expect you so soon.”

“_ Bonjour _, Jean.” Mitch accepted a kiss on both cheeks, letting himself be pulled down for the Frenchman to reach. Jean took his arm and led him away from the front room of the brothel, taking him deeper through dark rooms and darker hallways. “I got some extra time this month.”

“Just as well, your timing tonight is perfect. I have a very tasty morsel for you.”

Jean pushed open a door and Mitch saw that this room was different than the rest. Better lighting, with more people inside. Men holding cameras and reels of film, checking their equipment. The bed was in the center of the room so that they could easily move around it for better angles.

On the bed was a boy, delicately boned and strikingly beautiful, sitting on the edge like a faun. He looked terrified, shaking with nerves and casting wary glances around the room. 

“Jean—”

“Oh, none of that now. No one is forcing the boy to be here, you ought to know me better than that.” Mitch did know him well, and he wouldn’t put it past the man to trick this poor kid into getting in over his head. Whoring was one thing, but being filmed while you did it was quite another. Mitch would know.

“What’s your name?” He asked. The boy on the bed didn’t look at him. Didn’t even seem to hear him. His attention was focused solely on the large man closest to the bed, leering and watching with obvious lust. Waiting for the show to begin. Mitch stepped closer and touched the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Hey. Who are you?”

This time the boy looked up at him, and Mitch was struck by his round doe eyes. Still he did not speak.

“Do you know English?” The boy stared at him silently. “French? German?”

“_ Polski _,” the boy answered. Mitch swore.

“Where did you find this kid?”

“In another brothel, looking for work. I thought he was beautiful, perfect for a film. Lean legs, soft lips, very sweet.” Mitch couldn’t disagree with the assessment. The boy—he couldn’t be more than eighteen at most—was temptation made flesh, with all the frightened innocence this situation deserved. Mitch turned away from him. 

“Does he know what you want to do to him here?” 

_ “Oui. Mon ami _, I am not a monster. I would never take advantage of such a sweet boy.” Jean put a hand to his chest like he had been wounded. “I’m offended you would even think such.”

“I think you would take advantage of anyone if the payoff was good enough.” Jean laughed. Mitch knew he would. He still meant every word; it took a certain kind of person to get into this line of work. Jean’s position did not attract good people. Mitch also knew that there were men far worse than his French associate. 

Mitch didn’t feel comfortable doing this if he couldn’t communicate with the boy. Couldn’t ask if he truly was there of his own volition, if he knew what he was getting into. It made his skin crawl. From the way the boy looked at him, Mitch suspected the terms of his agreement had already changed, just by virtue of him being there. He sighed, taking another glance at the boy waiting on the bed. 

“Do you understand anything I’m saying?” He didn’t expect an answer. The boy bit his lip—Mitch wondered if he knew how it made him look—before slowly nodding.

“Yes. Little. Not good, but little.”

“Do you want to be here? Do you know what Jean wants you to do?”

“Yes. Get fucked.” The boy hummed, brows knitting in frustration. When he couldn’t find the words he was looking for he gestured fervently at the cameras.

Mitch still wasn’t convinced. Behind him Jean was examining his pocket watch, bored with Mitch’s reluctance and wanting to get on with the proceedings. When it seemed he would pull away, the boy clutched at his hand. Again his soft brown eyes glistened with unshed tears. His hands had never stopped shaking. “Please. Please, need this, need marks to find father. He is German prisoner!”

“Jesus.” Jean really did have a talent for finding the most desperate to sacrifice their dignity for money. But then, what did that say about him? “Tell me your name,” Mitch said again. At the puzzled look, he elaborated. “What do you call yourself? I’m Mitch.”

“Stiles,” the boy said slowly. It didn’t sound like a real name, but perhaps there was wisdom in that. Mitch cupped his cheek, brushed away a stray tear that had fallen.

“Are you sure about this, Stiles?”

“Yes. Yes, please, have to.” Stiles pulled at his other hand, tried to get him onto the bed. Tried to mask his fear with false eagerness. Mitch could see through him. 

“Are you afraid?” Mitch asked him softly, hoping he could do something to assuage Stiles’ fears. If Stiles couldn’t relax then this would only hurt him, and that’s the last thing Mitch wanted. The boy hummed; Mitch was learning he did that when he couldn’t recall a word.

“_ Semper virgo _,” he finally huffed, his cheeks red with blush. Mitch bit back a smile. He recognized the term from Sunday school. 

“Should I call you Mary instead?”

“No,” Stiles said. He was smiling now, some of his fear abating. Tentatively he reached up to touch Mitch, putting his hands politely on his waist. Mitch lent down to give him a soft kiss that had him gasping.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Stiles still looked unsure. Maybe he should leave, let someone else stand in this time. But there was something about the boy that captivated him. Mitch told himself that he wouldn’t hurt the boy for his first time, wouldn’t abuse his timid trust, but others would not be so kind. He had no doubt Jean would find someone else for the boy if Mitch left; the least he could do was make sure that this time at least was not scarring to him.

“Alright. Jean, we’re ready.”

“About damn time. Should have been filming ages ago!” Jean snapped and called for the men to get in position. He waited for the cameras to roll, and then began.

***

Film was a precious commodity. Still, Mitch took his time with Stiles once they started rolling, not rushing into anything like he might with a more experienced partner. Stiles couldn’t stop looking at the cameras, at Jean. Every time he did Mitch distracted him with a burning kiss. Slowly, Stiles relaxed into him, taking on a more active role. 

Stiles was an endearing combination of cautious and curious. He ran his hands across Mitch’s shoulders and down his back, timidly untucked his shirt, but didn’t dare touch his skin. 

“We don’t have all night,” Jean said under his breath. Mitch elected to ignore him. He did unbutton his shirt and cast it aside, Stiles watching with wide eyes, his pupils blown. 

“You can touch me,” Mitch said. He took Stiles’ hand and brought it to his chest, smiling at the soft ‘_ ooh’ _he made.

Once given express permission, Stiles freely pet Mitch, tracing the curves of his muscles with his fingertips. Timidly he leaned in to kiss Mitch’s abdomen. It was impossible not to gravitate towards him, but inexperience made Stiles feel clumsy and inadequate. He knew he was nothing in comparison to the man before him, or any of his past lovers. But Mitch’s smile was encouraging, reassuring. Possessed with a sudden boldness, Stiles quickly divested himself of his own threadbare shirt.

Stiles hesitated before unbuckling Mitch’s belt and pulling his pants down with short tugs. His cheeks warmed when he saw how hard the other man was already, tentatively reaching out to stroke his length. This at least he understood. The sharp inhale that followed his touch encouraged him. 

It felt strange to be touching another man this way, but not unpleasant. Stiles could almost forget where they were, focusing instead on the feel of Mitch hot and thick in his hand while the America ran his fingers through his hair, seemingly content to let Stiles explore. Then one of the camera men moved beside them to get a better angle and Stiles locked up. 

"Look at me." Mitch cupped Stiles’ cheek and thumbed his bottom lip, coaxing the boy to open his mouth. The way Stiles looked up at him as Mitch guided his cock into his mouth twisted him up inside. Stiles was beautiful. 

He was careful not to push Stiles too far, not wanting to choke him, even if he was tempted to see how much he could take. Instead he contented himself with a more passive role for now, carding his fingers through Stiles’ gritty hair. 

“That’s it,” Mitch murmured when Stiles sucked sweetly at the head of his cock, showing him how to stroke the rest. Slowly he grew bolder, bobbing his head along Mitch’s length with teasing sucks, dragging his velvet tongue along the underside. Stiles was messy at best but gaining in enthusiasm, and that more than made up for his lack of finesse. Once Stiles settled into a rhythm Mitch gave a few shallow thrusts. Each time he went a little deeper. “You’re doing so well,” he praised. He caressed Stiles’ cheek, smiling when the boy leaned into his touch. 

Stiles could only take him halfway before he gagged, jerking away to cough and gasp. Spit glistened on his lips and ran down his chin. They’d barely even started and already he looked completely debauched. Mitch decided it was time to move on. He pulled Stiles into a filthy kiss, sucking on his bottom lip and stealing his breath. 

Stiles panted when Mitch pushed him onto his back, belatedly pulling himself up all the way on the bed and spreading his legs to make room for his temporary lover. The camera men got into new positions while Mitch covered Stiles’ body with his own, moving lower to kiss his neck. There was a little place at the hinge of his jaw that made Stiles whimper and squirm that Mitch made sure to pay special attention to. A red mark bloomed on alabaster skin by the time Mitch made his way lower. 

Stiles’ chest was surprisingly sensitive as well. Mitch spent a few minutes just playing with his nipples because he liked the way it made Stiles whimper. The boy grabbed his shoulders with his long fingers and Mitch couldn’t decide if Stiles was trying to pull him closer or push him away. Couldn’t tell if Stiles even knew what he wanted. Nevertheless he moved on; there was a greater prize he was after. 

Mitch pulled Stiles’ pants down his lean legs. Once the offending article was out of the way, he spread Stiles’ legs and knelt between them. Stiles propped himself up on his elbows and watched with wide eyes as Mitch swallowed his cock to the root, unable to hold back his pleasured cry. Where Stiles had been sloppy with inexperience, there was no doubt Mitch had done this before. Within seconds Stiles was delirious from the pleasure, tangling his hands in Mitch’s shaggy hair and _ pulling. _

Mitch had to hold Stiles’ hips down because he couldn’t keep them still himself, yanking on Mitch’s hair with short tugs and warbling in that strange language of his. Mitch didn’t have to understand him to know Stiles couldn’t even finish a sentence right now. Something in him curled with pleasure at reducing Stiles to an incoherent mess. He liked being the one to give him this pleasure, drive him out of his mind. 

Jean helpfully tossed a bottle of lube onto the bed when one of the camera men moved out of the way. By now Mitch was skilled at getting his partners ready without the cameras noticing, thanks to a little sleight of hand. Reality had no place in film, after all, as Jean liked to say. It was all about creating the fantasy of perfect sex. 

Stiles was too out of it to hear when Mitch popped the cap. He poured some of the slick into his palm and sat up, making Stiles whimper at the loss. Mitch made up for it by stroking his cock instead, with deft pulls and twists that had Stiles fisting his hands in the bedsheets. 

Kneeling, Mitch pulled Stiles closer to have his legs spread across his thighs, giving him a better angle to jerk him off and reach between his legs to prod at his entrance. Stiles jolted when Mitch first touched him. 

“Relax,” Mitch said, hoping his tone was soothing, if not his words, “I’ll go easy.” Stiles blinked up at him owlishly. True to his word, Mitch started Stiles off slow, sliding one finger into him and slowly thrusting. Stiles scrunched his nose up adorably at the strange feeling. Before long Mitch worked him up to two, and had Stiles arching his back in pleasure when he found that bundle of nerves inside him, assaulting him mercilessly. 

“Stop, stop,” Stiles gasped after a few minutes of torture, breaking off into unintelligible moans and batting weakly at Mitch’s hand. He pulled his fingers out and turned Stiles over onto his stomach, pulling him onto his knees. Stiles was limp, his torso collapsed onto the bed and not even trying to hold himself up, brown eyes dazed. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care about the cameras recording their every move. 

“Please,” Stiles mumbled, arching his back with a whorish moan when Mitch thrust into him, a slow push that made him feel _ everything. _ It was almost overwhelming. Stiles was desperate and keening, clutching the bed sheets as he was forced to go along for the ride, with no leverage to do anything but _ feel. _Mitch wrapped his hand around Stiles’ throat and pulled him up so the cameras could see his face. 

Stiles felt like a doll, letting Mitch move and position him how he pleased, putting his body on display for the cameras. First on his knees, his back to Mitch’s chest, then he was shoved down onto his hands. Mitch grabbed a handful of his hair to keep his head up, putting him at eye level with one of the cameras less than a yard away, greedily recording the debauchery. 

***

Stiles could do nothing but stare up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. He was left wrung out and exhausted but it didn’t diminish his dopey smile at all. Mitch took a certain kind of satisfaction in working him over until the kid didn’t know which way was up. 

Mitch got off the bed to get cleaned up and redressed. He needed to get back to base before he was missed. Once dressed, he leaned down to kiss Stiles forehead and say, “Goodbye, Stiles. Take care of yourself.” 

“Goodbye,” Stiles echoed sweetly. He rolled over onto his stomach, stretching languidly when Mitch ran his fingers down his lithe spine as he walked past, looking over his shoulder to watch the American leave. 

Mitch collected his payment and disappeared back into the city streets like a fever dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubcon because Mitch and Stiles can't communicate well enough for informed consent to be given. Underage warning because Stiles is 17. 
> 
> This sex scene was literally the only thing holding me back from posting weeks ago. I have no idea why it took so long? In the end, I kind of like the impersonal/distant feel it has, focused more on what they're doing than what they're feeling. The next time they sleep together (in the last chapter) will provide a great contrast to this scene, because they won't be concerned with putting on a show and getting paid, so it will be more personal between them. 
> 
> The rest of the fic should come along faster, since most of it is written. Just needs to be fleshed out/polished up. And there are no more scene scenes for a while, thank god.

**Author's Note:**

> Language Barrier: like it says on the tin, Stiles is a Polish citizen in Berlin trying to talk to a Frenchman, so he won't be able to communicate during times of distress. 
> 
> Anti-Semitism: I'm trying to be tactful so it's mostly going to be referenced here and there, but it won't be a large part of the fic. No concentration camps or anything like that, no one targeting Stiles specifically for being Jewish, it's not the focus of this fic. 
> 
> \- 
> 
> Updates will be either every week or every other week, we'll see. I'd like for this to be finished sometime in November. 
> 
> As always, I would love to know what you guys think! I've been working on this for a while and I'm excited to finally get it posted.
> 
> -  
Edit: 8/21 also! It's my birthday tomorrow! I would love some comments on this fic, it would seriously make my day guys. Please. I have Statistics tomorrow morning I need something to keep me going or I won't survive.


End file.
